The Princess of Cleves #10

Finally, she spoke to him. "After having read this letter, I am not surprised to find you are able to dissemble so well. Were I more naive, I would believe you."

The Duke took the note from his pocket and held it out to her. "The Viscount gave me this to show to you. It is a letter, demanding back the one which you have."

Rosalind's fingers were trembling as she reached out to take the piece of paper.

"Let me draw back the curtains so you may have some light," he said. When he saw the dark circles under her eyes, her disheveled appearance, like that of one who spent the entire night tossing and turning, his heart quickened. She had spent the entire night weeping when she thought he betrayed her.

Rosalind blushed when she saw the Duke looking at her. She wanted to believe him, but found herself thinking of the things her mother had said of him, and the rumors she heard of him in the court. The letter she held was addressed to her uncle, the Viscount, and reading it, she could not forbear smiling. "It seems I have misjudged you, I apologize."

The Duke sat on the bed and took her hand. "There is no need to apologize. You were told it was my letter, and much to my shame, my reputation is such that it is not fantastic for me receive such a missive. I am glad that you know the truth now."

When he looked into her eyes, he saw that love she tried so hard to conceal. He moved so that he was beside her, and she looked away from him. He raised her fingers to his lips and kissed them. "I understand your desire to be loyal to your husband, so I will not speak to you of love. Only let me sit here with you for a moment, lean your head upon my shoulder, so that I may pretend that you are my love."

She shifted to be closer to him, then laid her cheek on his shoulder as he wrapped one arm around her. He stroked her hair, then took her chin to turn her face toward him.

He had lied to her. There was nothing in the world he desired more than her seduction, and she was weary from grief, exultant at his fidelity: a rush of strong emotions that had left her empty and pliant. He pressed his lips to her's, and she kissed him back. Her arms twined around his neck, and he moved to lay on top of her. There was a thick layer of covers between their bodies, and he thrust himself against her hips.

She ran her hands down his back as he covered her throats in kisses. "Oh Rosalind," he murmured, feeling her reach into his jacket to touch his chest, his waist. He kicked off his boots, and threw his coat and shirt to the floor. Pulling back the covers, he saw the Princess in only her chemise. She shied away from him, but he embraced her and would not release her. Her palms were pressed against his chest, and he kissed her until she ceased to struggle. He pulled off her nightgown, and her face flushed red. His lips worked all over her skin; he bit her nipples and ran his hand between her thighs.

Rosalind did not know what to do as he forced his fingers forward, until they rested just outside her sex. The slightest release of pressure, and he would be touching her. He was waiting for her permission, and if she relaxed any muscle in her legs, they would make love.

It was different than when she was with the Chevalier. Her husband was not there, hiding, or eagerly awaiting his turn. When others took her, it only moved her body. Her heart was pounding, her anticipation like an ache in her stomach.

The Duke felt her relax, and he again placed his hand in her sex. As he warmed her with his fingers, she became slick, and he withdrew himself from his breeches. He rubbed his phallus against her sex, staring into her eyes. They widened with surprised when she felt the head of his sex straining against her.

He was so large, for a moment it hurt. He was gentle though, using his fingers to spread her lips wide apart, rubbing the head of his phallus against the opening of her sex, lubricating it, before he entered her again. Rosalind came when he pressed his entire length into her.

With each stroke, she shuddered, and she reached down to take her little bud in her fingers, and when she came she did so with a hot gush of liquid and a great moan. The Duke grasped her shoulder, her hips, and moved her beneath him, thrusting into her as he jerked her down. His knees and elbow and feet were planted as firmly as he could on the bed, leverage for pulsing their bodies together. They orgasmed together, grunting like animals, their faces red twisted masks. Rosalind had never felt this before, her heart moving with her body.

The Duke spoke to her of love, holding her little hand over his heart. He determined a means for them to exchange notes, and arranged for a tryst in the dead of night, two nights from now. He would come to her just before people began to rouse from their first sleep. If the Chevalier and Prince were not with her, she was to shut a handkerchief in her window so he would know to come. The Duke left with the Viscount's letter, and he could not hide the joy that animated his every feature.